


Heart Of Darkness

by Kendrene



Category: The 100 (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Eventual Smut, F/F, G!P, G!p Lexa, Girl Penis Lexa, Major Character Injury, Minor Character Death, Monster Hunters, Sorceress!Clarke, Swordfighting, Witcher AU, Witcher!Anya, Witcher!Lexa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-14
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-03-31 10:37:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13973286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kendrene/pseuds/Kendrene
Summary: When Lexa and Anya arrive in the village of Midcopse and accept a contract to rid it of a monster that preys on the young, they cross paths with Clarke, a sorceress in hiding.  Will the three of them join forces to prevent more death? And is the village as quaint as it appears on the surface, or are even darker secrets hidden within the small farming community?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For reference, the timeline is that of the Witcher 3: Wild Hunt, and the events take place in and around Midcopse, which is a village found in Velen. For those who have not played the game or read the books, I hope I've given enough exposition about the current world events in the first chapter. 
> 
> As a side note, I wrote this because Lexa wielding two swords is sexy.
> 
> Happy reading.
> 
> \- Dren

The bailiff took one long look at them, before he turned his head, spitting a glob of yellow phlegm on the sawdust-sprinkled floor of the inn. 

“Witchers.” He grunted, casting the two of them a sour look. 

“You posted a contract.” Lexa reminded him good-naturedly, before taking a long swig of ale from her mug. 

“But we can always leave.” Anya added, far more sharply. 

They had perfected their spiel over the years - Lexa always the reasonable, level-headed peacemaker no matter what insults people threw their way, with Anya growling in cutting sarcasm at whoever had the misfortune to happen on her wrong side. 

It usually worked - potential clients would end up offering more money just to have Anya shut up - but the war had somewhat changed things. With Redanians on one side and the Black Ones on the other, Velen had turned into a tangled mire of alliances that were born and died before the day was over. A few of the lordlings still alive were trying to rally for the honor of Temeria, but most of them either saw chaos as an opportunity to seize power for themselves, or seek favor with those more powerful than them. 

As a result, coin was scarce and goodwill scarcer, which was why this particular bailiff was driving such a hard bargain. 

Anya scraped her stool back, preparing to stand and make good on her word, but Lexa placed a hand on her forearm, shaking her head.

“Let’s hear again, what the good man has to offer, shall we?” 

The bailiff banged a meaty fist on the table. 

“I said fifty orens, and it’ll stay that way. Take it, or go plow yourselves for all I care!” 

Lexa simply waited. 

“Fine! Eighty orens and you get rid o’ the wench haunting the fields. And after, you  _ leave _ . No loitering round His Lordship’s woods. We don’t like your lot out here.” 

He drained his beer and gave a loud belch - right in Anya’s face - before he stood and walked off, the matter of the contract clearly settled in his mind. 

“Whoreson.” Anya grumbled, waving a maid over to get more of the schnapps she’d been drinking. “We ought to leave them to their misery.” 

“Perhaps.” Lexa replied absentmindedly, her mind going to the small graves they’d seen just outside the village as they passed its gates on horseback. Children’s graves, with cairns of white pebbles piled on top to mark the burial sites. 

_ As if a mother could ever forget burying her child. _

“But we need the money. And-”

“And we don’t want to draw too much attention, I know.” Anya finished with a sigh. “Although, isn’t accepting work the opposite of keeping a low profile?” 

What Anya said was true, and yet it wasn’t. A dying breed, Witchers were tolerated at best, and solely out of necessity. And while it was true that fulfilling contracts would ensure that the common folk remembered them passing through the war-scarred villages, going by without seeking coin was possibly even more suspicious. 

“Have you heard talk of wise women recently? And hedge doctors?” Lexa answered with another question. 

“Not in this village.” A maid approached their table, bearing another round of drinks, and they both fell quiet until she was out of earshot. “Not in the last three places we’ve been through to be honest.”

“They’re hiding. Or burned.” 

Radovid’s men had been scouring what they controlled of Velen in search of anyone that had even the faintest tie to magic, leaving the two of them alone thus far because they were far deadlier than the average midwife, Lexa was sure of it. She said nothing further, sipping on her ale while she watched Anya follow her train of thought. 

“You think taking contracts and being useful will make us look good with the Nilfgaardians and in turn protect us from the Eternal Fire witch hunters if need be.” Her friend mused slowly. Her eyes hardened as she talked, telling Lexa that she didn’t like the notion one bit, but then again Anya had always felt way more strongly about her northern blood than Lexa ever did. 

“His Lordship sucks up to the Black Ones.” Lexa injected the noble’s title with all the scorn she could muster. Not that it was much of an effort. “We solve this problem for him, we gain some standing. I hope, at least.” 

She gave a tired shrug and Anya snorted. Who could really know with nobles? 

All in all it was a solid plan. King Foltest’s death and Temeria practically losing the war in all but name had turned Velen into a nest of vipers. The land was split between the Black Ones and the Redanians, the skirmishes they’d fought so far inconclusive to the overall outcome of the war. And if Lexa had to pick a side for them, she’d choose Nilfgaard - as unpalatable as that choice may be - since the Emperor, while not too fond of magic himself, was not a madman lusting for blood like Radovid. 

“Well,” Anya slammed her empty tankard on the table, “there’s one thing I agree with the Black Ones on, and it’s their love of order. So let’s go give it to them, shall we?” 

She stood, tossing a handful of coppers on the table for payment, and quirking an eyebrow when Lexa failed to move fast enough for her liking. 

“We may as well visit the blacksmith and have our mail and swords tended to while we ask some questions around the village.” Lexa suggested, choosing to ignore the clear signs of the older woman’s brewing temper. 

“You think people will tell us anything of value?” Anya sounded skeptical.

“I think that finding three children dismembered in broad daylight is enough to loosen anyone’s tongue.”

That was the reason Witchers were both sought after and loathed - they reminded people of all the evil things that crawled across the world, sometimes not even in the dark. 

And nobody liked to remember that some of the tales used to frighten childrens into obeying their parents were actually true.

*************************

The smithy was the only stone building in the entire village, its roof made of slate shingles instead of thatched. It rose at the edge of the hamlet, right where the last of the houses gave way to fields bordered by drywalls and bushes. Lexa could pick out a few farms further out, but only one or two had smoke coming out of their chimneys. The rest had been emptied by the war, their inhabitants either lodging with relatives inside the village, or long turned to wormfood. 

_ Not that a wooden palisade is much of a protection, should either army decide to come through here. _

As they walked through the muddy streets they gathered a fair share of dark looks, but the patrols of Black Ones and local militia making the rounds ensured that they remained unmolested. 

The Nilfgaardians wore their customary black plate with the Empire’s sunburst picked out in gilt - or beaten gold for the officers - on breast and shoulder guards, whereas the local Lord’s men wore sky blue, a rearing bear holding a fleur-de-lys in its paws their insignia. 

“Surprised they let the lordling keep Temerian colors at all.” Anya waited until a patrol was past to spit in disgust, earning a well placed elbow in the ribs from Lexa. 

“Have a care.” 

“Fine!” Anya rolled her eyes and huffed, but further lowered her voice. “What do we know of the local lord anyway?” 

“One Marcus Kane.” Lexa supplied, having done her research when they’d gotten to the hamlet two days prior. She didn’t tell Anya her research had consisted of letting one of the stable hands steal a kiss or two behind the haystacks. 

_ Alright. Perhaps there was some groping involved too. _

The girl had been equal parts of cute and bold-as-you-please, and had delighted in telling Lexa about the village and its surroundings, between a round of kissing and the next. 

Of course if Anya ever learned of it, she’d get teased until she died and, considering that careful Witchers could live for a  _ very _ long time, Lexa would rather avoid that.

“He was an officer in the war. Nobly born but a third or fourth son and therefore with no land to his name.” 

Anya barked a laugh.

“Surprise, surprise.” 

The war had benefited as many as it had killed, namely intrepid captains and unscrupulous nobles. Normally a rise to power like that of Lord Kane would have convinced Lexa he could not be trusted, but the stable hand had been adamant about the fact he’d brought a semblance of order to the hamlet and its lands. Of course, people didn’t like that he “shared his mead” with the Black Ones - no good Temerian would - but they couldn’t argue that his predecessor had been worse, taking far more in taxes than people could provide and letting his men run amok in the countryside.  

“As long as we get paid.” Anya abandoned the topic with one last quip, the smithy coming into view at the end of the road.

The smith turned out to be a woman, one quite young at that. She was banging away at a Nilfgaardian cuirass, but straightened as they approached, setting her hammer down to wipe sweat from her brow. 

The day was cold enough to make Lexa glad for the fur lining her cloak, but next to the open forge the heat was sweltering, and the woman only wore a short sleeved linen shirt under her leather apron. 

“Witchers.” Her tone held respect, something that Lexa had grown used to never expect from people. 

“Perceptive.” Anya groused, sauntering towards a rack where an assortment of weapons was on display. 

“The whole village is in a lather about you.” The smith wiped her hands on a soot-smeared rag before nodding to Anya’s back. “Besides no common soldier carries a silver blade.” 

“I’ve never seen a woman smithing before. Yet do I look in a lather to you?” Anya threw over her shoulder, seemingly having decided to take her foul mood out on the craftswoman. 

“Does your friend understand that being rude to me will only drive the price up?” 

Lexa had to stifle a laugh. The woman was blunt, but in a refreshing sort of way. 

“I don’t think she cares.” She shrugged apologetically.

“But you do, seeing how polite you’re being.” The smith extended a hand, which Lexa clasped as they shared a smile. 

“I’m Raven.” 

Lexa made to reply, and the blacksmith shook her head. “Don’t tell me your name. The least I know the better. Today we have Nilfgaard here. Tomorrow, Melitele only knows.” 

“She’s polite because you’re pretty.” Anya had rejoined them, a cutting smirk plastered on her lips, her eyes clearly telling Lexa she was wasting too much time with niceties. “How much to repair our mail and tend our blades?” 

“You’ll need to let me keep the equipment for a day or two ‘fore I can tell you.” Raven’s voice turned clipped and businesslike. “I warn you though, I need to finish with the stuff the Black Ones left me to mend first. Witchers or no.” 

“We’re in no rush.” Lexa reassured, slinging her swords off her back so that the smith could examine them more closely. “I fear your village will have to put up with us a while.” 

A strange light entered Raven’s eyes at that, one that - with a sinking feeling - Lexa recognized as hope. 

“You’re taking the contract? About the White Lady?” 

Lexa nodded. “If you know anything....” 

Raven shook her head. 

“Nothing more than rumors. But you can talk to the children’s families. And Lincoln, he’s the hunter that found the first body.” 

“Thank you.” 

Lexa and Anya exchanged a long look. It wasn’t much to go on, but as far as trails went it was more than they’d hoped for. 

“Come back tomorrow afternoon and I’ll be able to tell you the price for the repairs.” 

Lexa nodded again and they parted ways on Raven’s word, their minds already going to the list of people they’d have to somehow get information out of.

*************************

Raven waited until she was sure the two Witchers were truly gone before walking into the small room where she kept the steel ingots and the other raw materials for her work. She rummaged around some, shifting some boxes and tossing aside a handful of pelts to uncover a small niche she’d dug into the wall years before. 

She reached inside it gingerly - last time she had stuffed something there, she’d found a spider the size of her fist when she’d recovered it - and withdrew what would have looked like a powder-box to an onlooker. 

A Xenovox, the blonde woman who had given it to her had called it. 

_ Just talk into it,  _ the woman had said,  _ and I will hear you. _

In the beginning Raven had been afraid the blonde and the White Lady may be one and the same, but the murders had started before the woman came. And she had helped with her leg - for free - something that Raven didn’t think a murderer would do. 

Definitely not someone that killed children for sport.

She brought the device close to her lips, feeling supremely stupid about the whole thing.

“Uh. If you can hear me…” She swallowed. “There’s Witchers here. Two of them.” 

Raven expected the box to chime in acknowledgement, or maybe burn with the cold light of magic as her message was relayed, but nothing happened. She peered at it for several minutes then, when it was obvious that she was just gonna be left stood there like a fool, she made to put it back in its hiding spot. 

_ Must be broken. Perhaps I should open it and… _

“Thank you.” The voice coming from the device was tinny with distance but clear, and Raven almost dropped the box. 

“You scared me!” 

She placed the Xenovox on a nearby barrel and glared, as if the woman on the other side could see her. 

“Truly sorry.” The blonde at the other end said, using a tone that indicated quite the opposite. “Keep an eye on them. And don’t tamper with the Xenovox! I know you were thinking about it!”   

“I wasn’t-!” 

But the device had gone quiet again, and the rest of Raven’s indignant protest died on her lips. It was obvious that the woman had left as swiftly as she’d come. She was sure of it, even though she couldn’t tell how. 

_ I should never have gotten myself mixed with a witch.  _

The blonde had known she was thinking of taking the device apart, and Raven could not come up with any other explanation. With hands she’d never admit were trembling, the blacksmith put the Xenovox away, deciding that - in order to expedite the repairs to the Witchers’ equipment - she’d go without sleep if she had to. 

Perhaps when they moved on, the woman would go as well. 

_ And good riddance to the lot of them. _


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lexa and Anya begin their investigation. An unknown force watches from the shadows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I'm back! Hope you enjoy the read! 
> 
> An important note - in the farmers' speech I tried to simulate in writing what you hear in the games, which is either cockney or yorkshire or scottish accent depending on which areas you visit.

“I appreciate wotcher tryin’ ter do, Witchers, I do, but…”

The man trailed off and shrugged, the lines that grief had dug into his face twitching as he struggled to find words. At least this farmer was actually talking to them – even though he had not invited them inside his hut. His was the last of the families that had lost a child to the fiend haunting the lands around the village – or ghost, or wolf-man, depending who you asked – and gloom had settled over Lexa. It was obvious that they would have as little luck here as they’d encountered elsewhere, if perhaps a bit more co-operation, Anya had pointed out they were wasting their time throughout the afternoon, but she refused to leave a stone unturned.

She had always been the thorough, stubborn type; first during her training in Kaer Morhen, and after while she had plied her trade far and wide across different kingdoms.

At least they had not set the dogs after them this time, unlike the last farmer they’d visited.

“Have them come inside.” A woman’s voice drifted to them from somewhere behind him. “I’ll talk to ‘em.”

Craning her neck a little, Lexa caught a glimpse of her, a shadowy outline hovering near the hut’s sole window. If her husband was marked by their loss, his wife was bent from it, her shoulders slumped and curving inward, as if she was physically sheltering what little of her heart she had left.

The farmer opened his mouth – to argue perhaps – then, after taking one look at the woman, he stepped aside with a defeated sigh.

Lexa entered their home with a respectful nod in his direction, Anya hard on her heels. For once, her companion was keeping her barbed tongue in check, and Lexa knew that she was as affected by the somber mood they found waiting inside the house as she herself felt.

Not that Anya would ever admit it.

The hut was simply furnished, a table and some rickety chairs in the middle of the room, the farmer’s scythe and his other most expensive tools hung on one wall for safekeeping. Perhaps in more peaceful times he would have stored them in the small shack that leant against one side of the house, which no doubt worked both as a tool shed and a hen-house, but certainly not while bands of deserters from both sides of the war roamed the countryside. When the time for sleep came, the family would probably throw some blankets on the floor and huddle near the fire. 

They could still be considered luckier than most people in Velen.

The meager fire burning in the hut’s hearth barely robbed the air of its chill, but the woman didn’t seem to notice the little white puffs that gathered in front of her face whenever she breathed.

Or she didn’t care, which in Lexa’s book was far more likely.

A boy no older than six sat under the window, a pout stuck on his face as he galloped a wooden horse across the square of light that the sun projected onto the floor.

He didn’t even glance at them, too wrapped up in his sulking. Lexa had noted the same behavior in the other children she’d seen around the village, the very few who had been allowed out on the dirt-packed streets at least. None was permitted to roam past the village’s palisade, a measure she had been surprised to learn had been adopted only after the third death.

She would have enforced a curfew well before the haunting began, the lands between settlements rife with danger without accounting for the monsters, but when she’d said as much to Anya, the older woman had snorted a laugh full of derision.

“There’s no protecting people from themselves, Lexa, especially not when they’d rather pretend the war is merely passing them by.”

Midcopse had gotten by unscathed thus far, save for the Black Ones requisitioning most of the cows and poultry the villagers possessed. Compared to other settlements they’d travelled through, no huts had been burned down or women raped, the only signs that a war was raging on around it an almost empty tavern and the frightened looks the few strangers travelling through the settlement received. 

The village was paying its toll another way and, despite what the rumors claimed, Lexa was still not convinced their trouble stemmed from something supernatural. 

It could have been wolves - plenty of howlers broke the quiet of the night - or a pack of rabid dogs that killed the children. The hunter may be able to shed more light on her doubts, but that was for later. 

Now was the time to ask uncomfortable questions. 

“Yor’ere here about me Charlotte.” 

Before Lexa could even think of opening her mouth the woman spoke up, so she simply nodded and waited. It would be easier if the girl’s mother volunteered the information they were after, less painful - or at least that was what Lexa hoped. 

“ I told the bleedin' elderman ter put the notice out after the first child were found. Told 'im and the bailiff both .” The woman stroked her son’s head, her eyes vacant, and the child jerked away from her touch. His cheeks flushed bright red, as any boy’s were wont to do when mothers showed too much affection in front of strangers. With a sad smile, she let her hand drop. 

“Most o’ us did, but wot do we know? We is only women.” 

Lexa said nothing, judging it was best to let the woman vent, but Anya grunted. Midcopse, like many other villages, had a Women’s Council - all women of a certain age got together and elected two or three that’d speak for them in front of the elderman and the Lord’s representatives - but oftentimes they went ignored. Especially whenever the men felt that they were poking their noses into matters they were judged too frail to meddle with. 

Which, from what Lexa had seen during her travels, was basically most things. 

“Well, better now than never.” The woman’s words were laced with bitterness, but her back straightened. “Ask away.” 

“Where was your daughter when she was…” Lexa paused, biting the inside of her cheek. “Taken?” Not that the choice of words would make a lick of difference, but she would try to make their visit at least bearable.

The look she was given made it obvious that the woman knew what she was trying to do and, even though her eyes stayed hard, Lexa got a flicker of gratitude in return.

“T’was noon, three days ago. Old man and I, we’d gone in the fields y’see? The uns closest to the palisade. Spectre or no, we gots ter eat.” 

Anya leant forward, hands flat on the table. The words that the woman had chosen had obviously roused her interest. 

“What made you say spectre?”

The word choice was oddly specific, Lexa agreed. Peasants often delighted in sharing stories of ghosts and the unquiet spirits of the dead but - where in the majority of cases ghosts were echoes left behind by the living - spectres were entities always malevolent in nature. 

Ghosts scared people, but they couldn’t reach into the physical the way a spectre did. Lexa ought to know; she bore scars from a close encounter with a wraith, old wounds that ached whenever the weather turned despite the fact that several years had passed since the injury.

“‘Cause we seen it!” The husband interjected. “A minute the girl were where she was supposed 'o be, playin wi'h 'he bleedin’ 'ens, an' the next she was stood in the middle ov 'he ou'ermos' field, a figure next 'o 'er.” 

“A lady. T’were a white lady. She took me baby in the field, then the screamin’ started.”

The woman, who up to that point has displayed incredible composure, faltered, and pressed a hand to her mouth, stifling a sob. 

They would not get much more from her, so Lexa touched Anya’s arm, nodding her head toward the door. 

The farmer followed them out, shuffling his feet as they stopped next to the hen-house to peer toward the fields. Though weak in terms of warmth, the sun was bright enough that Lexa had to shield her eyes in order to see anything. 

The fields looked empty, as far as she could tell, the new crop still green and not even tall enough to reach her waist. 

“Quit standing around and point out where you saw this lady.” Anya ordered to the farmer, her words sharp with irritation. 

“O’er there.” He shot her a sullen look as he pointed. Following his finger, Lexa picked out the field in question - far enough to be closer to the woods than the village, an bordered by a drywall on one side. More fields, belonging in all likelihood to a different family, lay beyond that one, but they were almost completely overrun by weeds.

Either their owner had judged them too far from the houses to be worked safely during the trying times Velen was going through, or he’d packed his family and left - perhaps for the greater safety the walls of Novigrad could offer.

“Thank you.” Lexa went as far as to knuckle her forehead, hoping that a show of respect would rub out some of the sting Anya’s brusqueness had left behind. “You and your wife have been a great help.” 

The man gaped, before her returned the gesture. 

“ Yor a decent sort. Do wotever yer can, Witcher.” He ran a hand through his hair, seemingly on the point of adding something else, but in the end he merely shrugged and walked off toward his hut. 

Anya vaulted over the rickety palisade separating the yard from the fields, and Lexa followed, but not before she’d glanced back one more time.

The farmer and his wife watched them from the hut’s threshold, their faces cast in shadow. Despite her heightened sight, Lexa failed to read their expression, but she saw the way they clutched at one another, and tore her gaze away, feeling like she had invaded a private moment.

Anya was hurrying to the spot the farmer had indicated, and Lexa had to jog in order to catch up. When she did, her companion was already crouched, eyes trained on the trampled ground in search of any tracks or clues the child’s attacker could have left behind. 

Lexa joined her, and they combed the entire field, giving up hours later as light was fading. 

“Nothing.” Anya took a swig of water from her canteen, and offered it to Lexa. “Not much anyway.” 

They found a few spots where the ground looked almost black - drenched with blood perhaps - but the villagers who’d rushed to the child’s aid had trampled what little clues there may have been to start with. 

“I wish we had been here for the attack. Examining the corpse would have helped.” 

Three days Charlotte’s mother had said. If they had come just one day early… But it made little sense to dwell on ifs and maybes. 

Lexa stoppered the canteen and handed it back with a sigh, rolling her eyes at Anya when she chuckled.

“You sound like you’re almost hoping for another murder.”

“ _ No! _ ” A fresh body would offer more clues, but it was beyond morbid to wish for one. 

“We could always dig up one of the graves.” Anya offered, dodging the swat Lexa aimed at her shoulder with ease. She couldn’t shoulder every death she witnessed, not unless she wanted to break under the strain, and Anya’s dark humor was the seasoned warrior’s way of coping. Lexa was young enough to not have learned that lesson fully.

“Sometimes you’re-” Lexa paused and frowned, turning her attention to the tree line.

“I’m what?” 

When she didn’t reply, Anya tapped her shoulder. 

“What is it Lexa?” Her tone had grown serious. 

“Nothing. I thought….” Lexa waited, concentrating until the quiet of the countryside filled her to the brim like flowing water. All she could hear were the wind, whistling across the open fields. and the solemn hoot of an owl, already prowling for prey in the lengthening shadows.

“Nevermind.” She dismissed Anya’s concern with a wave of her hand and added. “I was about to say that you’re gross.” 

“You would be bored without me.” Anya took one look at the sky and puffed her cheeks. “Well, there’s a way wasted. Should we head to the tavern and have a bite? We can track the hunter down at first light.” 

She didn’t have to ask twice for Lexa to agree. They hadn’t rested in a while, and by that Lexa meant they hadn’t slept for two consecutive nights under the same roof. Lexa had not raised the subject with Anya, but she had been feeling as if she were on the run since they had departed from Kaer Morhen. Yet even that wasn’t completely accurate.

_ More compelled to travel on than chased. Like I’m meant to be somewhere. _

What troubled her the most was that the urge to spur her mount on to the next town had left her as soon as they’d arrived in Midcopse. 

She pushed the thought away, too tired and hungry to make herself sick with worry over what it meant. Best to do that on a full stomach, once they had retired to the room the innkeep had rented out to them at an extortionate rate. 

Night fell as they trudged through the field, the torches that had been lit among the village beckoning with the promise of warmth. Normally cold didn’t affect her much, but she couldn’t stop shivering and, when she fished the wolf head medallion out from underneath her shirt, she found that the metal was icy to the touch. 

She hadn’t been mistaken then. Someone - or something - had been watching them from the treeline. 

Something with power.

*********************************

Clarke pulled back, pressing her back against the trunk of a tree. When the wind threatened to make her cloak billow away from her frame, her hand snapped shut around the fabric to hold it in place. 

_ The Witcher would surely notice that. _

When the woman’s keen eyes had landed on her hiding spot Clarke had tensed, thinking she had been discovered. She’d held her breath, echoes of a power she could not really explain making the aether ripple. She had been taught to detect magic, and this particular Witcher was strong enough to set her teeth on edge. 

The magic that Witchers employed in their trade was less refined than any of her incantations, yet Clarke made note to step carefully around the two, until she could determine their feelings towards sorceresses. 

Clarke grumbled to herself and bent down, scouring the ground for a suitable pebble, before she settled on a dark grey one as wide as the palm of her hand.

Gathering her power, she rubbed her thumb across the stone, whispering to it as if she was cradling a living thing. 

When she reached the end of the incantation, she threw the pebble in the air, where it transformed into a raven. 

“Follow.” She ordered, and the bird croaked once before wheeling around in a tight arc to fly over the village. Clarke didn’t linger to watch the night swallow it, choosing to retreat to the sanctuary she’d carved for herself deeper in the woods. 

Having placed a second set of eyes over the Witchers made her feel better, but, as she retraced her steps, she found herself wrestling with the idea of leaving Midcopse behind for good. 

It was an argument that had played inside her mind well before the Witchers had appeared, their coming only making her position more precarious. 

The only thing Clarke was sure about at this point, was that she had come to the place she was supposed to be. Her dreams had told her so, and the bones had said the same when she had cast them on the ground. 

She would stay, she decided as she had done plenty of times already, and see this particular story play out. 

Aware that, if she made a wrong move, it could very well end with her burning at the stake.

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After she and Anya get some precious information from Lincoln, the Witcher discovers they are being watched.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note for those unfamiliar with the lore: Witcher undergo something called Trial of the Grasses, during which they ingest great quantities of poisonous herbs and other alchemical components in order to gain toxicity resistance. The Trial, for which they prepare for years, changes them on a physical level, the most notable change being their eyes, which become yellow-gold with slitted irises, not unlike those of cats. Hence why Lexa's eyes, while retaining a shadow of their original green when observed up close, are described as golden in the fic.
> 
> Happy reading
> 
> \- Dren

The tavern was much more crowded than when they had left it earlier that day, the oppressive atmosphere of the moonless night pushing people to group where there were heat, and fire, and music. Even so, conversation was subdued, never rising above a murmur, and the common room only grew quieter when the two of them were spotted at the door. 

The villagers might have been thankful that someone was finally going to take care of their plight, but that did not mean they welcomed Witchers with open arms. A Witcher’s cat eyes and dangerous air only served as a reminder of what lay in wait for the unwary outside of the palisade. 

Lexa scanned the room for an empty seat, and was almost on the verge of giving up, when a man met her gaze and waved a hand, beckoning them over. 

He sat alone at a table that could have accommodated five, and was getting plenty of dark looks from nearby folks who had to squeeze six to a bench. 

“Perks of having married the innkeeper’s daughter.” He explained with a shrug, noting her raised eyebrow. “I’m Lincoln.” He rose and shook hands with them. “And you are the Witchers.” 

“And you know this because…?” Anya sprawled on one of the benches without so much as a thank you, caught between staring daggers at him and flagging down a serving girl.

Lincoln rolled his eyes and Lexa shrugged, waiting for him to sit before doing so herself. 

“First of all, one would have to be a fool to fail recognizing a Witcher.” He used a patient, almost grating tone, unaffected by Anya’s frowning. “And secondly because the blacksmith mentioned you would want to talk to me about…” He paused and glanced around before continuing. “About the body.” 

Anya grumbled under her breath, her words mostly lost among the murmured conversations filling the room around them. Lexa’s trained ears, however, caught the words “foolish girl” and “talk”, and it didn’t take her much of an effort to piece her friend’s complaints together. The other Witcher was displeased that the blacksmith had talked to the hunter about their chat, and was possibly wondering who else she’d told about it. 

She opened her mouth, determined to ask about the body even though it was a stomach turning topic, especially over dinner, when they were interrupted by a brunette, who slammed three tankards of ale on the table between them so hard some of the liquid sloshed over the rims. 

“Talking about it is all you will do, if you want to get into my bed again.” She grated at Lincoln.

“Octavia…” 

But the girl was gone in a whirlwind, just as fast as she had come. 

“Gossiping and listening in to private conversations are habits your village would be better off without.” Anya’s tone was flat, but plenty of irritation showed in how she tapped her fingers on the table and ignored her ale for once. “Especially in times like these.”

Lincoln spread his hands helplessly.

“Octavia, my wife, she is…concerned, you see?”

“Concerned?” Lexa reached for one of the tankards and sipped on her ale. This was far better than the one she’d been served before, and she wondered if accepting the contract had gained them some sort of standing with the innkeeper. If that was the case, they may be able to renegotiate the cost of their accommodation. They didn’t lack for coin, but they could not exactly splurge either, not when they weren’t sure when and where they’d get work next.

“Thinks you’ll convince me to hunt this, well, whatever this  _ thing _ is with you.” Lincoln went on. A spark danced in his dark eyes as he spoke, lighting them up from within, and Lexa thought he was the kind of man that would do just that if asked, not for the sake of adventure, but driven by the desire to do good.

There was an air about him that some may mistake for meekness, but in the measured way he spoke she saw the self-assurance of a man aware of his abilities. He may never have drawn his hunting knife on a man, or carried the bow resting against the table to war, but there was no doubt in her mind that he had the skill to. Nor did she doubt that he would have taken up arms to defend the villagers against the terror ailing them, if he’d known where to start. But wolves were one thing, while otherworldly creatures would unman even the most hardened of hunters. 

The claw marks down her back twinged in sympathy at that thought, and Lexa shifted. 

“The Nilfgaardians tried to convince me to join their militia.” Lincoln said, almost too soft to be heard, when he noticed the way she was assessing his weapons. “I told them I’d rather hunt for them than kill men I grew up with.” He laughed. “Lucky for me, their commander likes his venison.”

“Lucky indeed.” Anya mumbled, but a note of reluctant admiration had entered her voice, and she wasn’t frowning quite so hard anymore. “Anyhow your wife doesn’t need to fret. I don’t doubt you’re a competent hunter when it comes to animals, but in this case you’d likely just get in our way.”

Lexa kicked Anya’s shin under the table, hard enough to make her grunt, but pain didn’t prevent her from continuing with the lack of tact she was famous for. “Just show us where you found the first victim, that’s all we need.”

“I’ve drawn you a map.” He rummaged in the pouch at his waist and handed Lexa a folded piece of parchment. “It’s far enough from the village that I won’t be allowed near my own house for a  _ year, _ if I take you myself.”

Anya looked about to scoff, or protest, but Lexa kicked her leg again, and she kept quiet.

“It’s alright. We understand.”

Lincoln nodded, his back unclenching in relief.

“Please.” He gestured to their drinks, “will you have another round on me, after this one? I wish I could help more, but…”

He cut short, throwing a worried look over Lexa’s shoulder. She twisted around, following his gaze, to find that Octavia had returned, this time bringing them food. She placed bowls on the table without much ceremony, although she didn’t slam them down like she’d done with the beer. They were full of a thick stew, and Lexa’s mouth watered at its sight, but even though she couldn’t wait to dig in, she felt she should put the woman’s fretting mind to rest first.

“You needn’t worry.” She placed a hand on Octavia’s forearm as she was about to leave. “Lincoln already gave all the help we required. He won’t be coming with us.”

Octavia paused, and pursed her lips, studying her intently. She looked as hard as her husband, and willing to wield the iron-bound cudgel hanging from her belt, should circumstances demand it. Lexa didn’t doubt Octavia had rapped plenty of knuckles and heads with it to keep the peace inside the tavern - at least judging from the wary looks some of the tipsier patrons shot her - and she could not blame Lincoln for treading carefully around her. 

The woman carried fire within, and it showed, mainly because she didn’t bother to conceal it. Lexa didn’t know if it was just a trait particular to her, or if the other people in Midcopse were the same, but she hoped for the latter. The village needed people like Octavia and Lincoln, the whole damn world did; the war had only just begun, and it would devour its fill of innocents before all was said and done. But if more were as stubborn as these two, perhaps a larger amount of lives could be spared.

Octavia pulled away from Lexa slowly, her face unreadable even as she nodded and left without a word. 

“That went smoothly.” Anya managed to snark, despite the spoon sticking from her mouth. She had dug in while Lexa confronted Octavia, and her food was gone. Her ale too, considering the covetous look she threw at Lexa’s abandoned tankard. 

With a sigh, she pushed the drink toward her fellow Witcher. Who knew, maybe she’d choke on it and bless them with silence. 

Anya was a friend and she had been her mentor, holding her through the Trial of the Grasses as terrible pain wracked her poisoned body, comforting her when Costia did not make it through… but sometimes the file she had in place of a tongue grated on Lexa’s nerves. It didn’t help that, while the feeling of dread which had accompanied her since leaving Kaer Morhen had left, it was now replaced with the electric atmosphere of a storm about to break loose. 

Still, her own sour mood was no excuse to behave the way she was begrudging the older woman for. Lexa would apologize to Anya, for the kicks under the table and the words she had thought but not spoken. 

Conversation had moved on without her, but, as she brought her mind back to the common room, she caught the tail end of one of Anya’s jokes. 

“Seems like your wife is at least willing to tolerate us, if we don’t hang around you too much.” Anya drained Lexa’s drink and grinned. “I fear you may have a harder time re-earning her favor.” 

_ Alright, _ Lexa thought as she waved a serving girl over to get them all more ale,  _ maybe she deserved the kicks. _

She leaned forward, ready to apologize to Lincoln and remedy the damage, but the hunter’s shoulders were shaking with mirth, and he was grinning back. 

“I think you may be right.” He fished some coins out of a pocket and placed them on the table, a slip of a girl hurrying over with fresh drink. “Any tips?” 

“Ask Lexa.” Anya elbowed her and she grunted, all thoughts of apologizing fleeing her mind. “She’s the expert.” 

Lincoln stared, and Lexa gulped her ale down way too fast, coughing into her mug. It was shaping up to be a long,  _ long _ night, and Lexa began to think she’d only survive it by getting completely drunk.

***************************

A downside of being a Witcher, Lexa thought as her eyes popped open, was that no matter how drunk she got, she never stayed that way for long. 

The evening was a fragmented recollection, and her dreams she could remember no better, but for the latter she was thankful, the few images flitting through her mind deeply unsettling. 

Next to her, in the bed they were forced to share, Anya muttered and rolled over, face scrunching up as she clutched at her blanket. She didn’t seem to be having a restful night either, and Lexa wondered if her friend had started to feel the way she did about their travels. 

She looked to the room’s only window, and huffed, rubbing sleep from her eyes. The sky outside was still pitch-black, save for a dusting of stars that glittered in the distance.

Lexa put her own blanket over Anya and, as she quietly got off the bed, the other WItcher stilled, snuggling into it. Now that she was awake, laying in bed would only irritate her and, having to relieve herself, she’d rather use the outside privy than the chamber pot she spotted tucked away underneath the washbasin. 

Padding barefoot across the room helped in chasing the last of her drowsiness away, the floorboards cold enough to pebble her bare legs in goosebumps. As she struggled into her breeches and tunic, She registered how sticky with sweat her body was, her smallclothes drenched from the night’s terrors. Lexa had learned not to dismiss her dreams, many of the tomes she had studied during training suggesting that some Witchers did possess a touch of clairvoyance. It was by no means comparable to the Sight, but there had been times in which, nightmares she had judged senseless upon waking, had come to pass in one form or another. 

She hurried to the ground floor, her body’s needs growing more impelling. The building groaned around her with the creaky moans of old wood and crumbling mortar, but the top floor was otherwise quiet, the other two rooms the tavern had available currently vacant. 

The whole place felt abandoned because of the late hour, the village itself fast asleep, except she supposed for the Lord’s man manning the palisade. As she reached to bottom of the stairs, the wolf medallion shook against her chest, and Lexa nodded to herself, unsurprised.

Transient spots like inns were often haunted, riddled with echoes left by troubled travellers.

One of the serving girls was dozing off at the table they had occupied earlier, as close as she could get to the last tongues of fire that still danced inside the hearth. As soft as Lexa’s footsteps were, the shifting floorboards gave her away, and the girl started awake, already rising to see if she needed anything before her eyes were fully open.

Lexa waved her back to the bench with a smile, and headed outside, her cat-like eyes adjusting to the little light the stars provided. At the edge of the village, torches moved through the night, carried by men she knew were there but could not hear nor see. The muddy streets remained otherwise deserted even though the barest hint of grey penciled the horizon. 

The outside privy was actually a low building built from timber, better than most inns outside of cities offered. It rose on the other side of the courtyard, ways away from the inn itself, so that, if the wind blew in the wrong direction, the smell wouldn’t bother patrons. 

Of course whoever used it was expected to haul their own water and clean after themselves - no aqueducts here, unlike in Novigrad - but Lexa had seen worse. She remembered passing near a Temerian army camp right at the start of the war, and their latrines could be smelled from  _ miles  _ away. 

Lexa was more than halfway across the yard when a soft, rustling sound caught her attention. She immediately dropped to a crouch, feigning a problem with her boots while in truth she was reaching for the throwing knife she kept concealed there. 

She heard the noise again, closer this time, and she realized it came from somewhere above her. Training her gaze on the privy’s rooftop, she scanned it carefully, and noted a small, dark shape perched right at its edge. 

_ A crow? _

As if realizing it was being observed in turn, the bird cawed at her softly, hopping along the shingles to follow her when she started moving again. At first, Lexa thought that it may be coincidence, but after she had walked back and forth across the yard a few times, the crow following her every move, she began to doubt.

Besides, crows weren’t nocturnal. 

Faster than a snake, she drew her knife and flicked it at the bird, aiming to bring it down and examine it. 

Just as the blade impacted, the crow took flight, its caws growing angrier before they were cut short. Only Lexa’s knife thudded to the ground, however, and when she bent down to retrieve it, the one feather stuck to the blade was made of stone. 

Above her, the sky gaped, inscrutable and empty.

***************************

Clarke was not exactly sleeping, but she had dozed off, lulled by the fire’s warmth. When a flash of pain bolted through her temples, she jerked her head up from the book she had been resting it on, and squinted, blinking owlishly several times before she could regain her bearings. 

The pain was enough to make her eyes water, tears turning the hut to a mess of confused shadows but, after a few, deep breaths, her temples stopped throbbing, and Clarke stood to add wood to the fire. 

The Witcher had discovered her crow - how wasn’t clear - but the pain, combined with the searing image of a knife blade flashing toward her face, were clues she could put together easily enough. 

That, and the set of yellow eyes piercing the night. 

Revived, the flames in the hut’s small hearth surged up, and Clarke watched them sway while she pondered what to do next. 

She trusted the blacksmith as far as she could throw her (nevermind that could be literally quite far if she were to use her magic), but she also didn’t want to get the woman too involved. One thing was teaching her which salve was best for her leg, another risking the rest of the villagers finding out she was associating with a sorceress. 

Raven had been ready enough to help her, and Clarke didn’t want any harm to come to her. Radovid’s witch hunters hadn’t reached Midcopse yet, but they had been sniffing around the neighboring villages, making it a matter of time. 

She would have to shadow the Witchers herself, and hope for the best.

The future-telling bones she had heaped on the hut’s lone shelves fell off with a rattle, and Clarke rolled her eyes. 

“Thanks so much for the vote of confidence.” 

She threw her hands up in the air and stomped to the pile of furs she used for a bed. There were still a few hours left before sunrise and, bad omens or not, she was determined to grab some sleep. 

**Author's Note:**

> [follow me on TUMBLR for more stories and exclusive content](https://kendrene.tumblr.com/)


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